


be still, my indelible friend

by nnegan13



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Making Out, POV Second Person, References to eating disorders, all of these are mild and non-explicit, but still stay safe lads, discussions of slut-shaming, post-reunion pre 3.11 speculation, talking about death, talking about tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-09-23 06:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnegan13/pseuds/nnegan13
Summary: He’s a heavy, warm weight pressed over her like a second blanket, but much more comforting than any blanket she’s ever owned. Having Edoardo away is hard, she knew it would be even for those few days they thought he would just be going to school in Milan, and him being in Ithica—on a completely different continent—sometimes makes it worse.Being with him again, she thinks as she turns to press her mouth against his forehead, is one of her favorite things.—compilation of my in-universe fics posted from 2 june 2019-8 nov 2019





	1. (we are shining) and we will never be afraid again

**Author's Note:**

> decided to compile all my in-universe, post s3 fics here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kisses her forehead and whispers against her skin, “I’m sorry.” 
> 
> Eleonora pulls him close again, burying her face in his neck, and his arms tighten once more around her shoulders, face tilting to press kiss after kiss to her cheek. His lips graze the shell of her ear. “I missed you so much.” 
> 
> A laugh chokes out of her, thinking of the past two weeks, all the texts he must’ve ignored, the school he skipped. “You have the weirdest way of showing it.” 
> 
> His body shakes against hers, his laughter also harsh and hurt, but she can feel his smile against her skin and tightens her hold around his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starts immediately following the end of 3.10, was written pre-any 3.11 clips

Eleonora slides her hands up Edoardo’s back, pressing firm as his ribs wrack and shake sporadically. He whispers incomprehensible words in her ear and pulls his arms tighter around her shoulders and she doesn’t think she can ever be close enough to him.

She closes her eyes and leans closer and whispers, “God, you are so stupid sometimes.”

He laughs, all but wrenching from his body, and it shakes hers as well and his lips press to the wet skin of her neck. There’s no space between them, now, and yet it’s not close enough for her. It’s been so long since she felt the line of his body along hers, since his scent filled her nose, since she could pull her fingers through his hair, and all she wants to do is hold him. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Why did it matter so much?” she asks, and forces herself to lean back so she can see his face. Bottom lip trembling, eyes red, cheeks wet, he looks exhausted and confused. She cups his face and wipes her thumb across his cheekbone. She doesn’t want to ask, it’s the last thing she wants to bring up, but she has to know. Using his words, she asks, “If I slept with your brother, why did that matter so much?”

He stares at a point above her shoulder and she tilts his head up so that he meets her eyes. “If he’d done something to you—” he licks and then presses his lips together, a wet breath rattling in his chest. “Then I let him hurt someone important to me again, and I did, I let him hurt you.”

His fingers curl tighter around her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t—he’s the last little bit of my family, so sometimes I feel like I have to let him back and I shouldn’t anymore, he’s proved over and over that I shouldn’t—” He inhales, sharp, eyes darting from hers, and she moves her thumb to run over his bottom lip.

“Hey,” she whispers, ducking her head so he looks in her eyes once more. Her cheeks are still wet, she wonders if either of them have stopped crying at all. “He doesn’t have to be your family, okay? ‘Family isn’t about blood or time,’ remember?” Fingers brushing that damn stray curl out of his eyes, she cups his cheeks. “It can be someone you’ve only known for a little while, someone special and important to you.” She swallows. “To me.” 

His lips part and she thinks she’s never been more in love with him. “You told me I was your family, is that still true?”

“Yes, Ele,” he whispers, and she smiles.

“Okay, good.” The corners of his mouth upturn one after the other until a smile blooms on his face. “Don’t push me away, especially when I’m hurt; family doesn’t do that.”

“Okay.” He kisses her forehead and whispers against her skin, “I’m sorry.”

Eleonora pulls him close again, burying her face in his neck, and his arms tighten once more around her shoulders, face tilting to press kiss after kiss to her cheek. His lips graze the shell of her ear. “I missed you so much.”

A laugh chokes out of her, thinking of the past two weeks, all the texts he must’ve ignored, the school he skipped. “You have the weirdest way of showing it.”

His body shakes against hers, his laughter also harsh and hurt, but she can feel his smile against her skin and tightens her hold around his waist.

—

Eventually, Edoardo’s arms slip from around her shoulders to circle at her waist and the need to be as close to him as possible decreases by a few degrees, and Eleonora takes a step back, letting Edoardo’s hands drop from her waist and looking over her shoulder at Filippo standing near the path to the greenhouse. He’s typing on his phone, hopefully texting Dario, and she smiles, taking one of Edoardo’s hands in hers. “Filo.”

“Ele,” he says, eyes lifting to her with a smile. They flicker to look at Edoardo over her shoulder. “Asshat.”

Edoardo chokes another laugh out behind her. “_Filo _—”

“What can I do for you, spider,” he asks, shifting his attention back to Eleonora.

She sighs. “Would you take us home, please?”

He gives her a look. “I still have to pick out a plant for Dario and I don’t think you want to waste anymore time here, no?”

“Maybe.” She frowns. “How else are we supposed to get anywhere—”

Edoardo squeezes her hand, drawing her eyes back to his face. Eyes red-rimmed, no longer crying, but gradually brightening with humor, he says, “Fede can take us back to my place and we can get my car, go anywhere you’d like.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Filippo calls and when Eleonora looks back over her shoulder at him, he waves a thumbs up at her. “You should do that.”

She purses her lips and he shrugs. “I don’t want you two making out in the back of my car while I’m trying to drive—”

“Filo!”

“—that’s just gross—”

“Filo, we’ll go with Fede, just stop talking.” Edoardo chuckles again, the vibrations rumbling in his chest where her shoulder presses into his shirt and she fixes him with a soft glare. “What are you laughing at?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he says, and gives her a quick peck before slinging his arm over her shoulders. “Ready to go?”

She looks back at Filippo, who gives her a wink and blows her a kiss before stepping backward toward the greenhouse, and her chest warms as she watches her brother disappear inside. She nods, “Yeah, let’s go.”

—

When Edoardo opens the car door for her, there’s a chorus of “congratulations!”

“You’re all assholes,” he says, and folds the seat forward so he can force Chicco and Rocco out of the back seat.

“Like calls to like, my friend,” Federico says from the driver’s seat and leans forward so he can peer at Eleonora, standing just behind Edoardo, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt. She watches the exchange with her lips pressed together, trying not to smile, and ignores the nervous flip of her stomach. Sure, she’s ‘hung out’ with Edoardo’s friends before, but that’s mostly consisted of going to the same parties and passing them in the hall at school. Riding back to Edoardo’s house with them in close quarters? Completely different. “Wouldn’t you say, Eleonora?”

Edoardo straightens up as Chicco and Rocco start climbing out of the back of the car, the long line of his body blocking her from their view just slightly, and tilts his head so he can see her over his shoulder. The corner of his lip twitches up and she raises an eyebrow at him, hand tightening its grip on his shirt. “Sure.”

Chicco and Rocco ‘ooh’ at her and Federico cackles from the driver’s seat, but Edoardo’s lips are still curling up and he shakes his head at her before pressing a kiss to her forehead and stepping to the side so she can climb into the backseat.

Her stomach settles just a little and she clambers into the car.

“Wait,” Rocco says as Edoardo follows her. “How are we all getting back?”

“What do you mean?” Chicco asks.

“Well, there’s not enough room—”

“Not enough room?”

“Yeah, Edo and Eleonora get the backseat and—”

“I get the front seat and we’ll leave you here.” Chicco claps him on the shoulder. “Problem solved.”

“Why don’t _I _get the front seat?” 

“Because you’re being an idiot.”

“Rocco, have you never ridden in a car with someone else’s girlfriend before?” Federico asks and Edoardo’s hand finds Eleonora’s.

She looks over at him and asks, quietly, “Is this normal?”

“None of us have ever _had _a girlfriend to have this problem with before,” Rocco insists.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Federico says. 

Edoardo shrugs. “More or less.”

“Covitti doesn’t count, you dated her for, like, two weeks—”

“_Edo’s _only dated _Eleonora _for, like, two weeks—”

Edoardo cuts in, squeezing her hand. “Fede—”

“—and she very much counts, remember the shit we’ve been putting up with for a month now?” 

Rocco opens his mouth to say something more and Chicco shoves his shoulder. “I’ll get in the back, just shut up about it, man.”

Immediately, Federico’s attention shifts. “Eleonora, do you have enough room?”

“What?” Rocco and Chicco look at her, too, and it almost gives her whiplash how fast their focus moves.

“Your legs, I don’t want to squish them, do you have enough room?” Chicco climbs in next to Edoardo and Rocco pushes the passenger seat back into its regular position.

“Ah, yes.”

“Fantastic,” Federico turns forward as Rocco ducks into the car. “Let's get you two lovebirds outta here.”

Edoardo squeezes her hand again and she looks over at him. It’s almost comical, his long legs scrunched up in the back of Federico’s car and Chicco pressed almost as close as she is on his other side, but he’s smiling, looking much happier than he did when he first stepped out of the car. “Less talking, more driving.”

The car starts pulling out of the drive slowly. “Got somewhere to be, Edo?”

—

Federico pulls up next to the gate to Edoardo’s house and there’s a big fuss about getting everyone out of the car and who out of Rocco and Chicco gets the front seat again. After several minutes, they drive off, leaving Eleonora, Edoardo, and Edoardo’s stuff just outside the gate.

She looks at his house, hands fisting at her sides, and can’t seem to move. She tries to picture the yellow hues of Andrea’s party lighting the porch, the front room, the lawn, and can’t seem to find the overlap. The house seems so innocuous, seems the place where she slept over, ate cookies in his kitchen, where he sang to her, but her body remembers what her mind can’t reconcile. Stomach flipping, she looks to him as he takes her hand and forces her fist open. “Do you want to come in with me?”

Her voice shakes, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Okay.” Edoardo steps closer and takes her other hand. “Do you want to try?”

A breath rattles through her chest. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She cuts her gaze over to him. “I—I feel like I should but, I don’t know, I don’t know if I can handle it and I want to, so badly, but—”

Her sentence hangs open ended in the air between them. This is Edoardo’s home, a place she wants to feel comfortable in, a place she wants to be able to be with him in, and it’s not fair that she might throw up if she walks through the front door. Pressure builds behind her eyes and she stares at a point in the distance over his shoulder, scared to see if she’ll find disappointment on his face.

His hand is warm against her cheek when he cups her chin and tilts her head just enough that she looks back at him. His expression is solemn and hurt and fierce, and it snatches the air from her lungs. “You don’t have to be ready, not now and not ever. Not for me.”

She blinks, tears winding down her face, and he brushes his thumb across her cheekbone. “I’m sorry you don’t feel safe here.”

“So am I.”

“Don’t apologize for that, please, Ele,” he whispers, tone earnest, and she can’t help but agree. 

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, and then her lips before pulling back. “I’ll go get the car. Would you rather wait here or inside the gate?”

“Ah,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth. She would rather he not go at all, her hands might start shaking if he lets go of them, but they’ll never leave if she makes him stay. “I’ll wait here.”

Mouth turning up just enough to be considered a smile, he says, “Okay,” and steps away from her with only a moment’s hesitation.

When he pulls the car out of the drive and she beats him to putting his things in the backseat, she pulls open the passenger side door and finds the cookie tin waiting for her. It’s more of a comforting sight than she ever pictured it being. She picks it up and climbs in, setting her bag on the ground by her feet, and raises an eyebrow and the tin at him. “I think you might have a problem.”

He shrugs. “You’re the one who ‘adores my nonna’s cookies.’”

Popping the lid off, she asks, “Does that mean I’m also the one who gets to eat all of your nonna’s cookies?”

He frowns. “Hey—”

“Where do you want to go?” A cookie finds its way into her hand after she searches through the batch for it and she bites off a chunk, grinning at him as she chews. The car doesn’t move and she raises her eyebrows at him. “I’m serious.”

“Give me a cookie and you’ll find out.”

When she shakes her head and huddles the tin close to her chest, he reaches one hand to tickle her side and the other to grab the cookies. “Edo, _no_—”

—

Edoardo takes her to the beach.

There’s a blanket in the back of his car that he pulls out and she picks a spot close to where the tide rides in and pulls off her socks and her shoes and rolls up the bottom of her jeans. She’s sure she looks stupid, but when Eleonora peeks over at him, he’s following her lead.

The water is cold against her ankles, but Edoardo’s hand is warm and he swings their clasped hands between them as they walk through the surf. “Why do you like the beach so much?”

“Hm?” He smiles at her and shrugs. “My mom would bring me here as a kid; it makes me feel close to her.”

Taking a step toward him, she wraps her arms around his waist and presses her head into his shoulder, effectively stopping their little walk. Luckily, the beach he picked is rather empty, they’re the only people she can see in either direction. “Mm, okay. What would you guys do?”

“She taught me how to surf, so we’d do that, but she’d only take me in the winter because the waves were best for surfing, then,” he says, his arm coming around her back and hand palming her waist. “It was always so fucking freezing, though, and she’d always stay out longer than me.”

The angle of his jawline is sharp and he presses his lips together for a moment. She runs her fingers up and down his side, giving his collarbone a kiss. A peaceful expression falls over his face when he talks about his mother and she likes it, likes how happy he looks, content to just talk about her. “In the summer, we had that little boat I tried telling you about—” his tone is wry and she pinches his side lightly and he moves on, “—and she’d just take me out along the coast and we’d swim and ski and do absolutely everything.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was nice.” He looks at her, kisses her slow. “This is nice.”

She chuckles. “We’re not doing anything.”

“Being with you is nice.” He bites his lip. “It’s so nice that it’s my favorite thing to do.”

“Yeah?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Yeah.”

Hiding her smile, she presses her lips together. He says things like that so casually it makes her heart flutter, and she buries her face in his chest. “Mm, good.”

He laughs and it echoes in his chest and she smiles and hugs him closer. The water and the breeze are both cold but his arms arm very, very warm and she can’t think of anything she wants to be doing more.

“Want to go swimming?”

She pulls her head back to stare at him. “What?”

He smiles. “Want to go swimming?”

“We don’t have swimsuits.”

“We can go in our clothes,” he suggests, shrugging. She chuckles, but he nods, insistent. “My friends and I do it all the time, c’mon.”

She gives him a look; like he would go swimming fully clothed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious. It’ll be fun!” He starts walking them a little further into the water, not much, but enough that the water level rises on her ankles.

“But I really like this top.”

He grins, wry and a little wicked. “You’ll just have to take it off, then.” She shoves him, hard, in the side, but they’re both laughing and he shakes his head. “No, no, I’ve got an extra shirt you can borrow, if you’d like.”

She purses her lips, looking for another excuse but coming up empty. His hands flex on her waist. “C’mon, Ele.”

“Okay.”

The smile on his face is wide and bright, and for that alone, it’s worth it. He kisses her once and lifts her up in his arms, walking back toward their stuff on the beach, and she laughs, wriggling a little as the sand makes him stumble. He sets her down and she takes his hand, walking with him to the blanket and sitting as he goes to grab the extra shirt from the car. Divulging herself of all electronics, she pushes her hair out of her face and debates with herself in her head. Keep her jeans on and ruin them but stay covered, or—

“Do you want to change in the car?” Edoardo tosses her his shirt as he returns. “I just thought of that.” 

“Um.” she presses her lips together, completely unsure, now. Swimming does sound fun, especially with him, but wearing clothes instead of a swimsuit makes her much more nervous, it feels much more intimate. Isn’t that what she wants, though?

She thinks of his hands, warm and large, and how his arms feel around her body, and his lips against her skin, and how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. How they’ll likely crinkle when he sees her legs, how he’ll be sweet and she’ll get to tease him again when he inevitably has to stop when they make out—

“Yeah,” she says, grinning up at him. “I’ll go change in the car.”

Trying to be as quick as possible, she manages to hit her head several times as she changes in the backseat. His shirt is so big the hem falls around the middle of her thighs, and she eyes his bag full of stuff he packed for that weekend. Did he pick his longest shirt? There’s no time to investigate, and she stacks her jeans and her top in a messy pile next to his bag before clambering out of the car.

Thankfully, he’s facing the ocean, talking at his phone when she returns to the beach and she has a few more seconds to calm down her nervous stomach. His shirt is baggy and long, she reminds herself, and, besides, she wears tighter clothes that are more revealing than this regularly.

She strides out towards him. “Edo!”

He looks over his shoulder as she nears the blanket, phone still close to his mouth, and his mouth splits into an exasperated grin as his eyes dart down to her bare legs. “Fuck, Ele, really? Are you trying to kill me?”

She laughs and he tosses his phone to the blanket, standing as she stops in front of him. “Maybe.”

“It’s really shitty, you know,” he starts, but his tone and expression don’t match his words. “To do this to me, just the _worst _—”

She folds her arms, tilting her chin up. “Are we going swimming or what?” 

He undoes his belt and slides his pants down his legs before pulling his shirt over his head. She has to remind herself that it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but that peek in his mirror did not do him justice. His smile turns sharp as he watches her eyes dart up and down his body, and he shrugs. “Let’s go swimming.”

He reaches to grab her hand, but she steps away from him toward the beach. For a moment, they stare at one another, anticipating each other’s next move, and she thinks he’ll try to reach for her again and takes off for the water. It’s a mad dash through the sand and he catches up as she makes it to the surf, arms wrapping around her waist, and she shrieks as he drags her into the cold water.

“Eleonora Sava, you’re in for it!”

—

“_Fede told me he got a rather interesting vocal from Edo this afternoon_,” Eva says on the other line, and Eleonora sighs. “_Something about you killing him?_”

“Oh, god, I didn’t think he sent it.” She leans back against her pillows, hair wet from her shower, and watches her door. Edoardo is currently in her bathroom, likely using her shampoo and wondering at the various products that clutter the countertop, and she can’t stop smiling. “We went swimming. At the beach.”

“_And?_” Eva sounds smug.

“And I didn’t have a swimsuit so he let me borrow one of his shirts,” she trails off, a little embarrassed, “and let’s just say when he saw that I wasn’t wearing any pants…”

Eva laughs and Eleonora presses her mouth into her knee. “_Oh, Ele, I am _so _happy for you._”

“I didn’t call just for you to make fun of me.”

“_Hm, well, I don’t really want to hear the details_—”

“No, no, we haven’t done anything yet.” She sighs again. “And we probably won’t for a while.”

“_He doesn’t want to?” _Eva sounds confused.

Eleonora barks a laugh. “Oh, no, he wants to very much. I just, I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“_Ele_…” 

“Is that okay? Do you think that’s okay?”

“_After everything that’s happened, I think that’s more than okay_.” Eva sighs. “_And even if there wasn’t an ‘everything that’s happened,’ it’s still okay. And if he’s not okay with it, just tell me and I’ll be over to fuck him up!_”

Eleonora laughs.

“_I’m serious, I think I could take him pretty easy, don’t you?_”

“Sure—” The door opens, Edoardo peeking inside, and she smiles. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“_You tell him I’ll be over to beat him up_,” Eva insists. “_Before you hang up, I want to hear what he says_.” 

“Eva, no—” Edoardo steps inside, closing the door behind him, and walking around to the other side of her bed.

“_I’ve got a mean right hook_—”

“I’m hanging up now, Eva, I love you—” Eva protests further. “Bye, _bye_!”

Ending the call, she looks at him, amusement clear in his eyes, and brushes a piece of hair behind her ear. “Eva was just—nevermind. Good shower?”

He nods, and climbs into the bed, slipping under the blankets next to her and cupping her cheek. “Yeah. Your shampoo smells fantastic, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “Kind of why I use it.”

“How smart of you,” he murmurs, shifting closer.

He’s angling for something else, she can tell, and can’t find it within herself to mind. “Mm, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” And he pulls her face up to his and slides his mouth over hers.

After several moments of long, slow, heated kisses, his other hand slides over her waist and she shifts to her knees, trying to keep her mouth on his as she swings her leg over his hips and sinks into his lap. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, hands circling her waist, and she tries not to laugh.

Against her mouth, several long minutes later, he finally protests, “No, no, _Ele—_” 

“What?” She asks, their lips brushing together, fingers making light fists against his chest where they sit under his shirt. “We’re just kissing.” 

He smiles, mouth curving against hers, and presses a line of kisses across her cheek before leaning back. She tries to follow but he pulls back further, eyes stern, and she pouts. “Mm, I think you know why I’m asking.”

Deliberately, she shifts in his lap, a wicked grin forming on her face as his eyes close and he presses his lips together. “Oh, but what are you asking, exactly?”

“Ah, I’m asking my wonderful girlfriend very nicely if she’ll stop—” she shifts again, watching him closely, and he glares, soft, “—being an asshole.”

She can’t stop smiling, leaning up to kiss him again, once. “Mm, an asshole?”

“A wonderful asshole,” he mumbles and kisses her back, despite his protesting, and she smiles again, until he pulls her up into him, hands firm against her back, and slides his mouth down to suck at her pulse point and it’s her turn to call him a wonderful asshole.

She slides one hand out of his shirt to cup the back of his neck, fingers stealing into his hair, as his teeth bite soft as can be before he kisses the rest of the way down to her clavicle. A flush rises in her cheeks and her chest heaves as he kisses and sucks his way across her collarbones. His chin catches in the neck of her shirt and she finds herself asking, “It’s not a big deal, right?” 

“What?” His mouth stills and she all but holds him in place, worried at what expression she’ll find if he looks up. “The teasing? It’s kind of fun, I think.”

The corner of her mouth twitches up and she shakes her head, letting him peek up at her. He’s confused, she can see, and she smooths her thumb down the side of his neck. Her heart pounds, and not from the kissing. “No, the not having sex yet.”

A soft, close lipped smile forms on his mouth. He squeezes her waist. “No, it’s not a big deal.” 

“When I first told you, you were convinced we’d do it in two weeks,” she says. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” he insists. “I promise.” 

“Okay.” She hates how unsure her tone is, but he doesn’t look upset; he looks content, concerned, and a little eager, and she bites her lip. 

“I think sex is a good way to get to know someone, even if it’s the only way you know someone,” he explains, hands moving from her waist to rest on his knees bent behind her. “But only when both people are ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I want to get to know you, in that way.” She smiles and ducks her head to hide the new flush on her cheeks, but he cups her jaw and tilts her chin up so she looks at him again. His gaze makes her blush once more but she doesn’t look away this time, focused on the glint in his eyes. “Once you’re ready to get to know me.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

It’s sweet to know that he’s fine with waiting, that he’s being considerate with her, but when he opens his mouth and says, “I mean, I want to get to know you in other ways, too, and I like hearing the things you tell me about yourself,” it only makes her want to kiss him more.

So she says, “I like hearing what you tell me about yourself, too,” and surges forward to slip her lips over his.

He laughs into her mouth, but soon his hands make their way back around her waist and it’s her turn to mouth down to his jaw and along his neck and do all sorts of things to make him call her a wonderful asshole again.

—

Filo says nothing when they appear out of her room several hours later to pick through the food in the fridge so that they’ve eaten _something _before they go to bed, but winks at Eleonora when they disappear back down the hallway.

She rolls her eyes and follows Edoardo back into her room.

He’s tucked under her blankets, scrolling through his phone, and she climbs in next to him. “You know,” she says, peeking over his shoulder; he’s texting Fede. “You keep taking my side of the bed.”

“The whole thing’s your bed, they’re all your side.” He swipes over to check the rest of his messages and she catches a glimpse of a group titled ‘EDO SUCKS’ before he closes his phone and sets it on her night stand. 

“But you keep taking the side I like to sleep on.”

“Okay.” He nods and leans forward to wrap his arms around her before laying back in his previous position, her body half on top of his. “Better?” 

“Mm, no.” She wiggles out of his arms, slinging a leg over his waist so she straddles his stomach, but doesn’t sit. His hands find their way to the sides of her legs, warm against her bare skin, fingertips brushing the hem of her shorts. Nodding at the other side of the bed, she says, “Now, you move over there.”

“What will you do if I don’t?” He looks excited at his prospects and she rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching up.

“Just go.”

As he rolls to the other side, she maneuvers her leg over him and they manage to make a mess of her sheets before finding themselves side by side once more. Despite all her complaining, she scoots close to him, cuddling into his side, while he pulls the blankets right.

Once he settles, a hand slipping up her back, she sighs. “We forgot to turn the lights off.”

“Fuck.” He cranes his neck up, looking at the light switch across the room, and groans before flopping back onto the pillows. “What a disaster.”

She laughs and he kisses her forehead with a smile before slipping out of the bed and making his way over to the light switch. Watching him go, she thinks of the first time she shared a bed with him, thinks of the pillow barrier, and the leather jacket she wore that was not at all comfortable, but she couldn’t take off. And now, Edoardo returns to the bed and slips his hand around her waist and she’s wearing another shirt he pulled out of his bag and she kisses him before she closes her eyes and lets her mind chase after sleep.


	2. in the wild the watchman's tower, your perfect monsoon (tell my friends i'm gone, it's true)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleonora wanders over to the edge of the balcony, leaning against the concrete railing and staring out at the blinking lights of the city. New York, the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. It’s beautiful, no questions there, but there’s something she misses about Rome, even if it’s only been a day since she left. 
> 
> But, for the time being, New York has Edoardo, which is something Rome can’t beat. 
> 
> He returns a few minutes later and pulls her close to him as they sip at their cups and chat quietly about Ithica, his classes, her classes, what she’s been doing with her friends, the radio episodes she wrote that she’s been sending him at his request, how Filippo is, how his friends are, and all the while her chest fills with the need to be near him, even though she already is. 
> 
> “What are you thinking about?” He asks, returning from throwing their empty cups away, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close again. 
> 
> Leaning up to press her forehead to his, she says, hoping her voice isn’t too shaky, “Home, you being here, things like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's fluffier than the summary makes it seem lmao 
> 
> shout out to Paige ([air-bison-yip-yip](https://air-bison-yip-yip.tumblr.com) and [SleepyBanshee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyBanshee/pseuds/SleepyBanshee) here, go read her stuff it's amazing!!) for beta-ing and giving me the Christmas tree dick joke lmaooooo 
> 
> chapter title from "firelight" by young the giant, another song that makes me Feel Things™

**WEDNESDAY **  
**27 NOVEMBER **  
**15:12 **  
**ROCKEFELLER CENTER**,** NEW YORK CITY**

“Is there a reason,” she starts, staring up at the Rockefeller Christmas tree with her eyebrows furrowed. It’s only November, albeit late November, but November, still, and it’s already up. She doesn’t understand. “That it’s so big? I don’t get it.”

“Capitalism, an American need to assert their dominance even in their own cities, the overbearing nature of corporate Christianity?” Edoardo suggests, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders, placing his chin atop her head and pulling her back into his chest. Eleonora tilts her head up to look at him as best she can from her position underneath his chin and he shifts as well so their eyes meet, if only barely. It makes her mouth twitch a little at a smile. “What?”

“You’re feeling opinionated today.”

“Spend four months around angry, liberal, college-aged Americans and you will, too,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up. He presses a kiss to her upturned forehead before letting her tilt her head back down. “Do you still want to go ice skating?”

“Maybe tomorrow? I’m still kind of wiped from my flight.” She doesn’t like asking him to postpone anything, they only have four days together, after all, and even if he’s coming home for Christmas in a few weeks, she still hates wasting any time she has with him. But, if she doesn’t find her way into a bed sometime soon, she might end up sprawled across the stairs of the Rockefeller Center, and that would not be a pretty sight.

“Want to go take a little nap and then come back and do some shopping or get dinner?” He asks as she shifts around in his arms to face him.

“Yes, I’d love that,” she agrees and kisses the content smile that grows on his face. Just as he starts opening his mouth, lets her get a taste of the hot chocolate they were drinking earlier, another idiotic reason for the Christmas tree pops into her mind. She pulls away, smiling a little as he pouts. “The need for men everywhere all the time to create phallic-centric symbols to inflate their own, tiny little egos?”

For a moment, he furrows his brows, but then he purses his lips and gives her a look, a _c’mon, really?_ look that has her holding back giggles. He knows she’s right. “Are you really thinking about the Rockefeller Christmas Tree _while_ we’re kissing?”

“I mean—” her tone is sly, she watches as he realizes what an _opening_ he’s given her, and can’t help the satisfied grin that grows on her face, “—I probably wouldn’t be if—”

Against her mouth, he mutters, “Mm, don’t finish that sentence,” and she laughs.

—

**17:49 **  
**HOTEL, NEW YORK CITY**

When she wakes, it’s to find a very sleepy Edoardo still pressed against her—half on top of her, more like—and the sun set behind the curtains of their hotel room. Eleonora blinks, feeling more awake, now, than she did earlier, but still jet-lagged, and shifts her arm out from underneath Edoardo’s shoulder so she can play with his hair, slipping her fingers in between the curls and rubbing them between her fingertips.

His face rests against the crook of her neck, nose pressed into her throat and jaw resting against her collarbones. His arm curls up underneath her, hand splayed against the back of her shoulder, and he’s wedged his bent knee between her legs. Her unoccupied hand drifts, tracing her fingertips across his bare shoulder before coming to the back of his neck, playing with the chain he’s always wearing.

It’s got a little guitar charm on it, she knows, and it makes her smile. His mom gave it to him and he wears it to keep her close to him, Edoardo told her when she asked once. Eleonora hopes he’ll like the little addition she got him.

He’s a heavy, warm weight pressed over her like a second blanket, but much more comforting than any blanket she’s ever owned. Having Edoardo away is hard, she knew it would be even for those few days they thought he would just be going to school in Milan, and him being in Ithica—on a completely different continent—sometimes makes it worse.

Being with him again, she thinks as she turns to press her mouth against his forehead, is one of her favorite things.

Something she’s done must’ve woken him up, though, because she feels his lips press into the hollow of her throat, feels his breathing change, and he shifts, rolling off her slightly to slip his other arm underneath her waist, hand drifting up her shirt to press warm against her spine. She arches her back just a little to make it easier, but then he rolls further onto his back and pulls her with him until their positions are flipped; Eleonora on top of him, now.

Edoardo’s second hand slips under her shirt as her arms tighten around his shoulders reflexively and he takes the opportunity to pepper kiss after kiss against her neck. Eleonora smiles. “Good morning.”

“Good evening, really,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest and against her skin, his mouth never far, and he presses a second kiss to the hollow of her throat.

She bites her lip, goosebumps rising all over, as he continues lower and lower down her chest, between the folds of her button-up, making her skin heat and her heart beat a little faster. For a moment, she lets him tease his lips along her sternum, over the top of her breast, lets him elicit quiet noises from her mouth as he skims his teeth over her skin and traces his nails along her back, before drawing back as best she can, propping herself up against his chest.

From beneath her, he smiles something lazy and pleased and sleepy that _zings_ down her spine, blinking a little. “Have I told you yet that I’m really glad you came to visit me?”

Trying to hide a smile, she purses her lips and pokes the tip of his nose. “Because now you have someone to make out with?”

He scoffs, grinning a little as she shifts her fingers down to trace over his lips, and presses a kiss to her fingertips. Eyebrows raised, grin shifting into a teasing smirk, he says, “Exactly.”

Eleonora shakes her head at him, her own brows inching up her forehead a little. “Mm, is that so?”

Nodding, smirking just a little more as a small smile does break onto her face, he shifts them, pressing his back into the headboard and helping her climb into his lap. When she moves out from underneath the blanket, her decision to forgo pants as they slept becomes one she regrets, the cool air making her hiss.

That is, until Edoardo pulls the blanket back around her waist, slips his hands up along her thighs until he can trace the edge of her underwear with his fingertips, and settles them there, warmth seeping from his palms into her skin.

He’s probably colder, she decides, one hand resting on his bare stomach as the other cups his face, draws his mouth to hers. She kisses him once, twice, three times; chaste little things that make both of them smile, make his hands flex against her thighs, make her want just a little more.

So she takes just a little more, lips parting against his as she licks into his mouth.

A small gasp escapes her as one of his hands leaves her thigh to slip back underneath her shirt, splays against the small of her back, and pulls her closer to him. Smiling against his mouth, her hand drifts from his cheek back into his hair and when he groans as she tugs, it makes her smile again.

“Ele,” he whispers against her lips, but doesn’t get much further than that.

—

**19:32 **  
**5TH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY**

“Come look at this one.” Eleonora swipes open the curtain to the dressing room, giving Edoardo a little smile as he pushes off the wall he was leaning on and joins her in the little cubicle.

After an hour or so, she finally managed to tamp down her own needs long enough to remind him that he didn’t bring her to New York City just to leave hickeys on her neck, her stomach, the back of her thighs—they could do that in Ithica, for fuck’s sake—and the pout he gave her from between her legs was almost enough to change her mind.

If she told Eva—or any of the girls, for that matter—that she interrupted Edoardo as he was about to go down on her to go _shopping_ of all things, she’d never hear the end of it, so she decides that that’s one thing from the trip they will _not_ be hearing about. They won’t be hearing about the two other times he went down on her earlier, either, but that’s their loss for being so predictable.

And her secret to think about when him being gone gets a little—difficult.

This dress, however, she might tell the girls about.

It’s a dark forest green, floor length, and gives her curves she’s only ever dreamed about. The straps are thin, the neckline daringly low for her personal tastes, and the back scooping. She’s slipped off her bra so it doesn’t look awkward, pulled half her hair back into a bun, and debated over and over in her head if she even wants Edoardo seeing her in this. To say her clothing choices were conservative—high necklines, tights under her shorts, always wearing something with sleeves—would not be untruthful, and to say Edoardo’s never seen her in something as revealing as this dress, long though it may be and naked he has seen her, would also not be a lie.

It makes her nervous, in sum.

He smiles, though, standing behind her shoulder so they can both study her in the mirror, and brushes her hair behind her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He whispers, “You look beautiful,” and it makes her smile in turn.

“Do you like it?” She asks, turning around to look at him, twisting her fingers into the soft material of his sweater.

He nods, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. “Yeah. Do _you_ like it?”

She considers, studying his face and pressing her lips together. Dresses have never been her favorite, neither have skirts, they remind her a little too much of being at her old school, doing things to catch her ex-boyfriend’s attention, the way his hands would wander too far, the different clubs they’d wind up at, that very last night together. Donating all her skirts and dresses during the clothing drive was probably too cathartic to be normal, but looking into her closet and not seeing a single thing she wore just because her ex liked it is something she really, really enjoys.

This dress she thinks she could like.

When Eleonora pulled it off the rack, the color had caught her eye, drawn her in, made her go back on her personal promise to forgo anything that wasn’t a pair of pants and a shirt. The cut, the sudden expanse of skin, the attention it gives to the lines of her body are all things she’s avoided for one reason or another—is she thin enough, is she too thin, does this make her ex look her way, does this make the rumors at school true, will it make them worse—and this dress—though beautiful it does make her feel—brings her worries back to the forefront of her mind.

Does she like the dress?

“I’m not really sure,” she says, tilting her head to the side and watching the pensive expression form on Edoardo's face. “I think it’s pretty and I feel pretty in it, but I don’t know if it’s something I would wear.”

He nods, agreeing with her, and raises his eyebrows. “Could I bring you something I saw that I think you’ll like?”

“Okay.” He could be walking her into a disaster or something wholly wonderful, and the little smile that quirks onto his lips when she agrees makes her glad she did so; disaster or not, seeing him happy is worth it.

Once he kisses her and disappears out back into the store, Eleonora pulls the curtain shut again and studies her reflection. She hadn’t checked the price tag, maybe that would be more helpful with her decision…

Edoardo returns a few minutes later, looking very smug as she pulls the curtain open again and lets him into the dressing room. He’s got a few hangers in his hands and when she rifles through them, she realizes he’s brought her—

“A suit?”

He shrugs, that smug grin not leaving his face. “It could be fun.”

They end up getting the suit.

—

**22:46 **  
**TERRACE, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN**

In her coat pocket, a little box sits and she fumbles with it when she sticks her freezing hand inside. Edoardo’s disappeared back into the building to grab hot chocolate from the little stand he spotted inside on their way to the terrace, and Eleonora wanders over to the edge of the balcony, leaning against the concrete railing and staring out at the blinking lights of the city. New York, the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. It’s beautiful, no questions there, but there’s something she misses about Rome, even if it’s only been a day since she left.

But, for the time being, New York has Edoardo, which is something Rome can’t beat.

He returns a few minutes later and pulls her close to him as they sip at their cups and chat quietly about Ithica, his classes, her classes, what she’s been doing with her friends, the radio episodes she wrote that she’s been sending him at his request, how Filippo is, how his friends are, and all the while her chest fills with the need to be near him, even though she already is.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, returning from throwing their empty cups away, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pulling her close again.

Leaning up to press her forehead to his, she says, hoping her voice isn’t too shaky, “Home, you being here, things like that.”

A soft kiss to her cheek. “I missed you everyday.”

She looks at him, studies the deep brown of his eyes, the crinkles at the corners even with his somber tone. It’s nice to know he enjoys the bittersweetness of their situation like she does; sometimes when she lets herself think about it long enough, having him gone is a personal form of hell, but seeing him again is something heaven-sent.

It feels like coming home.

“I have something for you.” It’s whispered so low she thinks her words are captured in the wind, but he squeezes her waist and waits, silent, as she pulls the box from her pocket. She wiggles the lid off, staring at the little charm inside for a moment or two before looking up at him. “It’s for your necklace. I figured, while you were here—or, in Ithica, really—it might be nice to have a reminder, or something—” she swallows, “—of me.”

Lips parted, eyes wide, face open, he’s staring at the charm like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, and turns his gaze to her. It doesn’t change. Her heart beats a little faster. “Ele, I am always thinking of you.”

She laughs, thick with tears building up behind her eyes, and kisses him once. The plan had been to give the charm to him on her last day, but she couldn’t help herself, she needed him to know that she wants to be on his mind, even if it’s just for a moment here and there and even if it’s selfish of her.

When she pulls back, Edoardo smiles at her, bright enough to light up all of Manhattan, and it only makes her want to kiss him again, tell him more of the feelings curled in her chest, let him know that she’s always thinking of him, too, but he speaks first. “Thank you, Ele, I—I’m glad I can keep you close when you’re not with me.”

It feels like her smile might split her face in two.

They maneuver around, pulling off gloves and holding the box and unclasping his necklace, and with careful fingers she slides the charm onto the chain.

When she was looking for one, Eleonora tried to stick with charms of a similar style to the one already on his necklace, and she thinks she succeeded. It’s silver to match and rectangular as well, a raised silver flower, simple like a child’s drawing, with an emerald green background. It’s proportional to his mother’s charm and when he puts the necklace back on, her heart flutters a little.

“It looks good,” she tells him in lieu of saying something that might have her crying again.

“Yeah?” He draws her close, lips twitching into a smile.

She leans up to kiss him again, revel in the fact that she can be near him. “Yeah.”

—

**SUNDAY **  
**1 DECEMBER **  
**19:04 **  
**SAVA’S APARTMENT, ROME**

“Ele,” Eva calls from Eleonora’s bedroom. Eleonora finishes shoving her dirty laundry into the washing machine, trying to ignore the tired flutter of her eyes, the exhausted pounding of her head. It was a long flight back home, and not as enjoyable as the one to New York. After all, she left Edoardo this time and going home to her friends who she’s seen everyday for the past three months is not as exciting as flying to see her boyfriend who’s been living in another country.

She gets to go to sleep soon, Filippo promised her he wouldn’t be too loud, and she’s looking forward to being back in her own bed. The fact that she’ll be sleeping alone? Not so much.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur of sight-seeing and food-eating and souvenir-buying (mostly on Edoardo’s part) and long mornings spent in their bed doing things she already scolded him once for. If she couldn’t find it in herself to complain about the feel of his hands against her skin, his mouth finding its way to the places on her body he _knows_ makes her louder than usual, how it feels to hook her legs around his hips, waist, shoulders, as much as she did that first day, well then that was Eleonora’s moral quandary to have.

And the questions; even eight months into their relationship, Edoardo was still determined to become an expert on all things Eleonora Sava, and in turn she became an expert on him.

It’s another of her favorite things.

When he took her to the airport, he kissed her long and hard and slow before sending her off, winking as she went, and she had several texts waiting for her after she got through security, all questions about something new or something she’d said or something he remembered them talking about days previously, and the last was a picture she set as her wallpaper: a selfie of a distracted Edoardo, chain of his necklace held between his lips, her charm just off-center against his mouth, the yellow glow from the streetlights shining through his hair and casting a warm light against his skin.

“Ele, I thought you said you only got the suit from that store?”

“I did.” Eleonora frowns, padding her way from the kitchen into her room to see what Eva was talking about. The suit Eva’s hung up in her closet, but sitting in her suitcase in a see-through, plastic dress bag is the green dress she tried on. She smiles a little, pulling it out for Eva to see and lets her friend pull it from her hands to gush over better.

> _19:07, message to_ **Edo **💜  
Did you buy that dress and put it in   
my suitcase? 

It doesn’t take long for him to respond, her phone buzzing in her hand and his contact picture flooding her screen. She answers, trying to keep the smile from her voice. “Hey.”

“_Hi. Good flight?_” He asks, voice scratchy and rough. It makes the hair on her arms raise, a shiver run down her spine, and she starts wandering out of the room. No need to give Eva anything to tease her about.

“Did you just wake up?”

“_Maybe._” There’s rustling on the other line and Eleonora can imagine him laying in his bed, curtains drawn, one arm wrapped around his pillow, sheet pull haphazardly over his chest, the hickey she may or may not have left Saturday night bright red against his ribs. The thought makes her smile and she bites her lip. “_Good flight?_”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning against the wall just outside her bedroom door. The slick sound of plastic running against fabric reaches her ears; Eva must’ve pulled the bag off the dress. She hopes her voice stays casual. “I got home a few minutes ago, found something extra in my suitcase, though.”

“_Mm, good_.” He’s grinning now, she can tell. “_I was worried I forgot to put it in or something when you hadn’t said anything_.”

“When did you get it?” She can’t remember being very far from him the entire trip, the longest she can think of is when he’d grab them hot chocolate or coffee or when one of them would slip off to the restroom.

“_When you were looking at the lipsticks and I was getting everything_,” he says. “_You seemed a little preoccupied so it was pretty easy to go back to the dressing room and grab it_.”

She blushes, remembering the several minutes she spent looking through that particular store’s lipstick selection. She didn’t need any new ones, but it’s always fun to look. And apparently a good time for boyfriends to buy dresses in secret. In her stomach, her worry begins to rise and she can’t find it in herself to beat it down. “Sneaky.”

“_I still think you should’ve gotten that red one_.”

“They were all red.”

He chuckles and even over the phone it makes her chest warm. “_You know, it was like a really dark red, but not purple-y. A really solid dark red_.”

“I already have one of those.” The fact that she knows exactly which one he’s talking about is a little concerning, but it’s the one she was testing on the back of her hand when he came back with her suit—and dress, apparently—tucked neatly in a bag, the one he liked the best even after she tested six or seven others. “And I think you need to work on expanding your vocabulary, or at least checking the labels on stuff.”

“_Can’t, my brain won’t compute anything besides economics and the principles of finance._” His voice sounds muffled, like he burrowed his face further into his pillow.

“But it can plan to buy a dress for me in secret?” It’s itching under her skin to know why, to know if he bought it in the hopes that she’d wear it for him, because it’s cut a little more racy, because it shows so much skin, shows her figure, gives her a _shape_—

“_You said you felt pretty in it,_” he mumbles, a little hint of embarrassment coloring his tone. It’s only ever over the phone that she hears him become self-conscious and it always makes her smile. Now, it brings a sweet relief. “_So I thought it’d be nice if you had it, even if you only ever wore it when you were alone_.”

For a moment, she says nothing, just listening to the gentle sound of his breathing on the other line and letting her stomach calm down. Biting her lip, she asks, “Edoardo Incanti, has anyone ever told you how nice of a guy you are?”

“_Only when they’re going to drag me_.”

Eleonora laughs loud enough that Eva pokes her head out into the hallway, an eyebrow raised, the hanger for the dress slung behind her neck and the dress itself, still hanging on the hanger, draped down her front. “What’s so funny?”

Eleonora can’t stop laughing.

If, after she hangs up, once Eva leaves, and she finishes unpacking her suitcase, Eleonora pulls on the dress, lays on her bed, and traces her finger along the edge of the red mark on her sternum that barely sticks out of the neckline, then that’s another secret she’ll keep to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's [the dress](https://www.lulus.com/products/infinite-glory-forest-green-maxi-dress/511092.html?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_content=511092&utm_campaign=PLA_gowns&pla=1&s_kwcid=AL%217824%213%21337857861739%21%21%21g%21571487098219%21&gclid=Cj0KCQjwgezoBRDNARIsAGzEfe55FwH8X2s4m3TuJCCAHYIURW9fMjfm_ow8znoOu4u4v_CfCiF-sVIaAlcdEALw_wcB) I picture ele trying on (I know it's from an online store but just like imagine that it somehow is from a fancy store on 5th avenue) 
> 
> ily


	3. meet me there (maybe i'll come home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your lips twitch at another smile and even that hint gets my heart racing faster. Not the time, however. Your nonna bangs a pan loudly against something downstairs and swears, which has both of us smiling, you pressing your forehead into mine. Not the place, either. 
> 
> “I’m not hiding.” 
> 
> “Okay.” You pull back just a smidge, enough that my eyes don’t over-focus on yours and turn them into one massive eye-blob. I really like the color of your irises, a brown that holds the light it catches, an insect in sap or amber or syrup. It’s beautiful, and I can imagine the way you’d dart your eyes away from mine, duck your chin, tamp down a smile, if I told you that. 
> 
> Not hiding my ass. 
> 
> “I love you.” You do exactly as I imagined, which makes me smile even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably in the spring 
> 
> I know the second-person isn't everyone's fav POV but I love it so much 
> 
> chapter title from "promise" by ben howard

Downstairs, your nonna is making cookies in the kitchen she shooed us away from a few minutes ago. You took me upstairs into your bedroom. We’ve had sex on this bed, I think as I sit on it and run my fingertips over the soft fabric of the comforter, looking at you standing at the counter in your bathroom washing your hands. There’s a grapefruit-scented soap that I bought for you sitting on the counter and I wonder if you can find any like that in Ithaca.

The brand, I mean. Obviously, there’s grapefruit-scented soap in the United States.

Sometimes when I sit and I look at you, I think about two years ago. And I think about too much alcohol and too little food and too much time spent worrying over this jackass that slept with my friend. And how hot he was. And how I was a shit friend for thinking he’s hot. And how I got chased from my last school for supposed nymphomania and that I couldn’t do dumb shit like sleep with who I wanted to again. Not that I wanted to sleep with anyone, really, but now even the option was gone.

And then I think about how I couldn’t sleep with him most importantly because he’s a fuckboy and a player and an ass, and how I’m a horrible feminist for realizing that fact second.

And I especially think about how Silvia doesn’t know the difference between ovulation tests and pregnancy tests. God, sometimes she’s so stupid.

And I think about how it’s probably a good thing that I couldn’t do dumb shit like sleep with who I wanted to anymore. Responsibilities and all; sure they suck but at least they keep you from falling into a metaphorical hole of your own making.

God, sometimes _I’m_ so stupid.

But I look at you, like right now, and I think about those things. And I think about how glad I am that it’s not two years ago anymore.

You do this thing when we’re together where you like to have visible access to me whenever you can, like you build up an appetite for it when all you’re given to eat is video calls and the stuff I put on my Instagram, which isn’t much, so I can appreciate how hungry you are once you finally fly home to visit.

Hell, I’m hungry, too. Starving, really.

But, back to the visible access kink: you do this thing where you’ll open the door right after you’ve finished in the bathroom, because you like to see me and so you can give me a little smile as you wash your hands. A kind of smile that raises goosebumps on my skin and heat to my cheeks and gets me thinking all kind of wild thoughts. Like how much longer it’ll take your nonna to finish those cookies and whatever other food she was mumbling about as she shoved us towards the stairs. How much of your skin I’d be able to touch in those few minutes.

Nymphomaniac, remember?

Fuck you, you make it easy to joke about things that I shouldn’t joke about, even to myself.

You finish in the bathroom and come join me on your bed, making a big fuss about putting one of your damn long legs behind me and stretching the other across my lap and pulling me close enough that it’s your thigh I rest my hands on, not, like, your knee or your calf or anything, and I lean into your chest. “You make me so uncomfortable, sometimes.”

“What?” You laugh a little and it reverberates in my skull, almost like leaning against the window of a bus, and it feels good. Too good. You always make me feel too good.

It takes me several very long seconds in which you put one big ass hand on my waist and run the fingernails of your other hand up and down my arm in a single line to answer. Eventually I get the words out; I did tell you I’d be better about talking about my shit. “I just get overwhelmed all the time when I’m with you.”

“In a bad way?” I can’t see your face because of the whole leaning-into-your-chest thing, but your voice is low and rumbly like it gets when you let that self-confident bastard of a mask slip a little. I don’t tell you this because it feels raw and honest in a way that needs more emotions than just my dumb mouth running, but it’s one of my favorite voices of yours.

The you that isn’t hiding.

“No, in a really, really good way.” A moment passes and you don’t say anything and I tell the butterflies in my stomach to fuck back into their dumb little cocoons. And I look at your face and realize that I forget too often that you’ve loved me longer than I’ve loved you.

Even if that year was just a superficial love, I still think it counts. You still think it counts, too.

Your friends seem like the kind that only tell you they love you straightforward with those words in the dark at three in the morning after you’ve been drinking or smoking or not talking long enough that they can pretend they’re alone. And I know they love you, and you love them, but I just wonder if that’s enough.

I want you all to myself, I realize, so maybe I’m glad they have a little trouble expressing themselves.

Maybe I’m the most selfish person on the planet.

Your brows smooth down and out around your eyes as I look at you and you catch yourself unmasked. “Mm, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Now they raise, confused. What happened to too raw, too honest? When am I going to stop putting my foot in my mouth?

“Hide.”

Your lips twitch at another smile and even that hint gets my heart racing faster. Not the time, however. Your nonna bangs a pan loudly against something downstairs and swears, which has both of us smiling, you pressing your forehead into mine. Not the place, either.

“I’m not hiding.”

“Okay.” You pull back just a smidge, enough that my eyes don’t over-focus on yours and turn them into one massive eye-blob. I really like the color of your irises, a brown that holds the light it catches, an insect in sap or amber or syrup. It’s beautiful, and I can imagine the way you’d dart your eyes away from mine, duck your chin, tamp down a smile, if I told you that.

Not hiding my ass.

“I love you.” You do exactly as I imagined, which makes me smile even more.

It’s not the first time I’ve told you, but you always act like it is we say it so sparingly to each other. I don’t mind it, not really; your love makes me feel electric and unsettled in a way that love hasn’t ever before, not with my mom, not with the girls, not with Filo.

A little family, that’s what you said, and I like that better than love, anyways.

But it’s nice to say the words, feel their shape in my mouth and their taste on my tongue and see how they make you blush. I’m clumsy with it, though, which is why I’m spare with it and you’re spare with it only because you’re considerate and I say dumb shit like _you make me so uncomfortable sometimes_ and forget that you’ve loved me longer than I’ve loved you.

I like saying I’m in love more, though.

The words are quiet, full with a breeze that almost takes them away before they reach your ears, but your hand flexes against my waist and you turn your head into my neck this time, mouthing at the tendon in the crook of my shoulder as I say, “I’m in love with you.”

Goosebumps again, a shiver ghosts down my spine. Your nonna drops something, now, which makes you laugh.

“You need to warn me next time you’re gonna say that.” When you speak, your lips brush against my skin and it’s just _shiver shiver shiver_ over and over with every word. And I know all I’ve been thinking about since we came up to your bedroom and I remembered—not even _remembered_ just had it brought to the forefront of my mind—that we had sex on this bed multiple times is whether or not I want to risk your nonna coming upstairs to find us mid-fuck, but, god, I love you more for how you say things like this than for how you can make me unravel between your sheets.

I love you so damn much. You let me say stupid things and do a really bad job at talking about how I feel and put plants in your house so I have an excuse to come be in your space even when you’re in Ithaca.

And you ask me to check on your nonna when you’re gone because _I swear she loves you more than me_ and you play songs your mom taught you on the guitar when you miss her and you cry in front of me even when it makes you blush red from embarrassment.

And you offer to finish my essays even when you don’t know shit about what they’re on and you only ever want to video chat because you miss seeing my face and you aren’t afraid of saying things that will overwhelm me.

You get overwhelmed, too.

“Okay. I’m gonna say it again.”

“Ele.” You pull your face from my shoulder, lips pressed together like you don’t want to smile, which makes me smile and there’s another bang from downstairs.

I think she’s doing it on purpose; it feels too periodic.

Your voice caresses my name and I have a hard time pulling my eyes from your mouth and your teeth and the little flashes of your tongue. Your lips are chapped—they always are—but I don’t really mind because mine are too and I kind of like it when the tears get caught together when we kiss; it makes my mouth tingle like the goosebumps you keep raising on my skin.

I do manage to stop looking at your mouth, which is a feat you should applaud me for.

Your eyes do this squinty thing as you bite your lip and I want to tell you you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Instead I manage to school my face into something serious, or at least I think I do. “I’m in love with you, Edo.”

I’ve learned that you have this face you make when you want to kiss me, all jaw movement and eyebrow twitching and your irises become a shade darker and it makes my breath hitch every time, even if you don’t notice. And you make it now and all the air goes out of my lungs and your nonna swears loudly again from downstairs.

You would kiss me if she wasn’t here, but she is—and I love spending time with her, so I’m not mad or anything—and it makes me laugh a little because it feels like last year all over again, not touching each other when we were in the same room because once we did we wouldn’t stop. We’d get caught, and of course we couldn’t have that; I wasn’t even supposed to like you for fuck’s sake.

It’s the same now: if you kiss me, there’s not an end in sight.

Your nonna is definitely the type to come looking for us even though she shooed us off in the first place.

For a moment, I think you might risk it anyways as you lean forward to drop your forehead onto mine, but then your mouth just presses to my cheek instead of my lips and you tighten your hold on my waist and my eyes close. A second and third kiss on my skin and when your lips brush against the shell of my ear, I exhale.

“I’m in love with you, Eleonora Sava.”

You make me feel too good. You always make me feel too good.

The next crash from downstairs sounds like an accident.


	4. (we are shining) and we will never be afraid again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you tell me why you got the spider tattoo?” 
> 
> For a moment, she watches him, studies his eyes, the way the sunlight glints off their glossy surface and turns his irises into a backlit brown, like coffee or cola. His hand encircles the wrist she rests on his sternum and one corner of his mouth pulls up. The smile that blooms when she nods is bright like the sun. Her chest warms. 
> 
> “It was Filo’s idea again.” 
> 
> His laugh echoes off the water. “Really?” 
> 
> “Mm.” 
> 
> “Do you have any tattoos that weren’t his idea?” 
> 
> “The fast forward,” she says, pinching his chest and raising her eyebrows when a playful wince scrunches up his face. “And you seemed pretty interested in that one the other day.” 
> 
> “Well, what piques my interest piques my interest.” 
> 
> “_Piques_? Is Cornell expanding your vocabulary, or something?” Her other hand drifts into his hair, winds a curl or two around her index finger. His smile makes her chest warm further. “I thought you were there for business: finance and accounting and _math_.” 
> 
> “I’m interdisciplinary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "panoramic girl" by young the giant. another banger. go listen to it!! 
> 
> shout out to Paige ([SleepyBanshee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyBanshee), [tumblr](https://air-bison-yip-yip.tumblr.com)) for being an absolute legend and an awesome beta. literally this wouldn't have been finished without here, go show her fics some love.

**MONDAY**  
**30 MARCH**  
**23:14 **  
**ELEONORA’S BEDROOM, SAVA’S APARTMENT **

Eleonora ignores the pathetic whine that comes from her naked, stupid boyfriend on the other side of the bed as she swings her legs off the mattress, his large hand slipping over the bend of her hip but finding no purchase as she turns on her bedside lamp and stands up. She looks over at him, eyebrows raised. Edoardo pouts and she stoops down to pick up his discarded T-shirt so he doesn’t see her smile. 

He’s been too pleased with himself tonight. Not that she minds, or anything, but it’s still fun to tease him.

Another whine escapes him. “Where are you going?” 

Pulling the shirt on over her head, she stops at her dresser to slip on a clean pair of underwear and shoots him a little smirk over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. A low grumble and an obnoxious amount rustling reaches her ears; he must’ve burrowed into the blankets. The image makes her smile. 

Despite the tightly shut windows, a late March chill fills the apartment and goosebumps erupt across her skin. Maybe she should’ve put on pants. 

After she pads down the hall and finishes in the bathroom, she makes her way to the kitchen to pick over the remnants of their dinner from a few hours ago; the rumbling in her stomach is too loud to ignore. 

Edoardo appears in the doorway of the dining room, clad in a pair of sweatpants, as she exits the kitchen, hall-full bowl of pasta in hand and half a mind to go check on her plants outside. It’s starting to warm up, even just a degree or two, and she wants to see how soon she can move the less winter-friendly plants back out into the sun. 

He must be able to see what she’s thinking in the distracted way she chews and darts her eyes around the dining room because he catches her around the waist before she can make it back to her room and climb out to the veranda. The knowing look on his face makes her chest warm. Even doing long-distance, he knows her almost as well as she knows herself. “It’s almost midnight.” 

“Mm,” she hums in lieu of a better answer. It’s nonsensical to check, she knows—she was the one who told him so when the idea first popped into her head the night his flight got in—but it takes up an itchy amount of space in the back of her brain.

“You can always check in the morning.” 

“Or,” she muses, turning her gaze from the hallway to Edoardo’s mildly exasperated face and offering him a forkful of her food, schooling her own expression into one of mock innocence, “I could check now.”

Before he can voice more protests, she shoves the fork into his opening mouth and takes off toward her room, giggling as he swipes at her arm. She can picture him standing there in the maw of the hallway: fork protruding from his mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and hands opening and closing like they want to grab at something soft—her waist, no doubt, and the thought makes her smile even in her late night induced single-mindedness. 

Once she makes it into her room, she abandons the bowl of pasta on her desk and climbs through her window onto the veranda, ignoring how the chill outside is much worse than in the apartment—she really should’ve put on pants—and dutifully wandering the deck to check her various pots and plants. Inside, she hears Edoardo shut her bedroom door and collapse onto the mattress. 

After poking and prodding her plants long enough that the cold has seeped through her muscles down to her bones, she scurries back inside, shutting the window firmly behind herself and plopping her cold body directly on top of Edoardo amidst his squirming and quiet, humorous complaining. Even as he mutters how obscenely cold and cruel she is for doing this, he wraps his arms around her huddled form. 

She scoots around his chest until she hears his heartbeat firm and steady underneath her ear. Body heat radiating into her, he kisses the top of her head and tightens his hold as a happy sigh escapes her. 

When he speaks, she thinks she might be dreaming. Especially because he’s got her arm pulled away from her ball of a body and is inspecting her wrist like it’s entirely new to him. He’s so gentle, though, that Eleonora doesn’t even notice he’s manhandled her—to put it frankly—until he says, “Who’s Lulu?” 

Blinking, she tilts her head up to look at him. “What?”

“Your tattoo.” He lets her pull her arm back to her person, and she stares at the black words inked onto the inside of her wrist like she’s never seen them before. The late hour combined with his intoxicating body heat makes her brain slower than normal. “Who’s Lulu?” 

“A little cousin of mine,” she says after a long moment, slithering off him to pull the blankets over both of them. Once they’re covered, she lays back on his chest. He’s propped himself up on a pillow, now, and she rests her chin on her folded hands atop his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing lulls her back to the brink of sleep and she resists with her best effort. It’s difficult, but she manages. 

They’re having a conversation; she can’t exactly fall asleep on him. 

Edoardo reaches down until he finds the hem of his shirt she has on and slips his hand underneath, starts tracing his nails on her skin. She closes her eyes as they roll, mild pleasure flickering through her. 

Eventually, Eleonora forces her eyes open again and finds him watching her. Lulu is a heavy subject, one she isn’t sure is appropriate for the light fun that she’s had a hand in supplying for Edoardo’s spring break, but talking to one another, telling each other things when it feels right, has always been something they’ve tried to do. 

The words slip out with an ease that’s grown over the past year, with Filippo, with Eva and the girls, and with Edoardo, most of all. “She passed away when I was younger, probably eight or nine. All my older cousins got a tattoo of her name and Filo took me when I was old enough.” 

“Were you guys close?” His voice rumbles in his chest, vibrating into her person; it’s a true effort to stay awake. 

“I mean, she was just a toddler,” she murmurs. On his face, his expression morphs from one of sleepy interest to sleepy concern and his hand flattens against her back, thumb rubbing slow against her skin. There’s not much to comfort her about; it happened a long time ago, but she appreciates it all the same. “Had a heart defect and got really sick. I don’t really remember much about it, but we would go see her all the time before it all happened.” 

For a moment, they stare at one another, her words hanging in the air between them. She rises and falls with his chest, his thumb continues to sweep against her skin, and a microscopic part of her heart breaks again. Then she shifts off her hands and presses her mouth to his chest, her shoulders relaxing as she moves. 

When she pulls back, he cups her cheek with his other hand and draws her face to his, kissing her twice, gentle motions more for reassurance and affection than anything else. Her chest warms, and she settles back into her previous position. 

“What about the others?” 

“The other what?” 

“Tattoos.” 

“Mm.” Edoardo studies her with those deep brown eyes of his, fingers tracing aimless patterns once more, and Eleonora try to decide where to start. “What do you want to know?” 

Shrugging, he pulls her off his chest and helps her tuck into his side. Once she settles, her head pressed into the crook of his shoulder, his arm curled around her, and his hand under her shirt resting against her stomach just above her hip, he takes her forearm and exposes the inside to the soft lamplight illuminating the room. “You don’t grow any sunflowers.” 

When he traces a fingernail along the edge of the sunflower inked on her skin, she shivers. “What an observant person you are.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, peeking up at him and grinning when he rolls his eyes a little. 

“Why’d you get a tattoo of one if you don’t grow them?” 

As she contemplates for a moment, pursing her lips, he goes back to studying her tattoo, tracing the lines and maneuvering her arm around to see better. She’s not embarrassed, but still thinks it’s true: “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.” 

“I don’t think anything you do is stupid.” 

“Mm.” Watching him makes her smile. “Okay, sure.” 

“Remember, I’m not the one who thinks the other is stupid in this relationship.” 

She props herself up on her elbow to properly glare at him. He grins, self-assured, back at her. “Hey.” 

Squeezing her waist, he says, “C’mon, tell me.” 

“Fine.” She purses her lips and thinks about sixteen-year-old Eleonora’s reasoning behind the multitude of tattoos she got amidst her change in schools. They’re still things she wholeheartedly believes, but sixteen-year-olds aren’t the most eloquent people on the planet, so everything is choppy and awkward in her head. “Don’t laugh.” 

A sweet smile cracks onto his face. He looks excited at the prospect of learning about her tattoos and it makes her grin. “I promise.” 

“Have you ever heard of heliotropism?” He shakes his head. “Certain flowers do it. They track the movement of the sun during the day because the light reactions help with pollination, or internal temperature, or is part of their circadian motion.” 

“And sunflowers do heliotropism?” 

“No, actually.” 

“How misleading.” 

Eleonora gives him a pointed look that he grins at before continuing. “Sunflower buds will do it when they’re developing, but once the flower is fully mature it stays facing east.” 

“And there’s a metaphor, somewhere.” 

Automatically, she says, “No,” even though he’s right. 

It’s Edoardo’s turn to give a pointed look, eyebrows raising and mouth twitching, and she relents. “Fine, there’s a metaphor, but I didn’t know the specifics of heliotropism when I got my tattoo like I do now, so it doesn’t really work all that much anymore.” 

She sinks back down into him, his arm curving around her shoulder again as she situates herself against his side. “I always focused on what other people thought of me at my old school: what my friends thought of me, what my ex thought of me, if I was pretty enough or skinny enough or small enough. And my grades slipped, I stopped eating, I stopped hanging out with people, it was just—it was bad.

“It got worse when everything happened with my ex. I wound up in the hospital for a little while.” It hits her that she’s saying these things out loud; she’s saying these things to an actual person—to Edoardo—not just to herself. For a moment, her pulse spikes and her stomach turns and her muscles tighten, like they want her to ball up on herself, but he smooths his thumb across her hip and kisses her hairline and she remembers that he’s already seen her lows, he already knows a good chunk of the hurt she’s been though—he was _there_, after all—and she takes a deep breath. Looks at him. Tries not to blush or smile or do something stupid when the only thing she can read on his face is deep-rooted concern. “I transferred a couple weeks after that.”

Edoardo says nothing, still, which she appreciates. 

“I started gardening when I got out of the hospital,” Eleonora says, a wistful smile forming on her face as she thinks of her crude attempts at keeping her mother’s deck plants alive. “And Filo wanted me to put a giant pot of sunflowers in the corner of the deck because he thought everything was too green. I told him we couldn’t put them in the corner because they have to track the sun to survive and out of nowhere he said that I was like them, that I cared about people’s opinions so much that it would kill me. Then we were yelling and I was crying and he was telling me I needed to focus on something else or I would die.” 

She snorts. “He’s so dramatic.” 

Edoardo’s hand flexes against her waist and she looks up at him. He’s not frowning, looks rather contemplative, actually, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t know if I’d call it that. You did end up in the hospital.” 

Pressure builds up behind her eyes as he speaks. It’s weird, hearing another person say she was in the hospital, especially when he’s so close to her—it makes it all feel very, very real again. The need to snark back, keep herself from crying, turn this serious moment into something they can laugh at instead, wells up inside her, but she pushes it aside. She wants to be honest with Edoardo, and not just with her words. 

“Okay,” her voice is thick and she doesn’t actually start crying, but he presses his lips to her forehead just the same. “Maybe you’re right.” 

“Not a maybe,” he mumbles against her skin.

The hand that was holding her arm up for his inspection of her tattoo slips down her wrist and grasps hers, squeezing softly. She takes another deep breath.

“Filo gets all his tattoos to remind himself of things. He thought we could do the same—that I could do the same—so he took me to the parlor he got his done at,” she says. “I was still crying and Filo didn’t know what to do, so he just apologized to the artist once we got inside. And he had decided in the car that I would get a sunflower and what it would remind me of and then I got it.” 

“Filo decided on the metaphor, then?” 

“Yeah. Well—we did, together.” This is the part that’s corny and cheesy and all too fitting of a sixteen-year-old even if the sentiment holds true. She sighs and looks at Edoardo. The brush of his thumb against her hip helps with the nervous flips of her stomach. “The sunflower focuses on the sun to survive, and I should focus on myself to survive.” 

For a moment, he says nothing, just studying her face with the corners of his lips gradually turning up and it’s only this that lets her know that he heard her, that her voice didn’t fade into the darkness engulfing everything outside her bedroom. 

He curls their bodies together, pulling her up into him with the arm tucked around her back and his neck bending and body curving until his lips press into her forehead and the space between them shrinks into a tiny width she could close in a minuscule movement. Their legs tangle together under the blankets. Once he’s situated his other arm across her waist, he draws his mouth a hairsbreadth away from her skin and mumbles, “So you’re the sun _and_ the sunflower in this situation?” 

“Yes,” she says, closing her eyes, and adds after a beat, “Asshole.” 

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and out of his mouth against her forehead and the warm, sleepy feeling descends upon her again. The light’s still on, her brain reminds her, but Edoardo exudes heat and his skin is soft, and she loves laying here and talking with him, even if that talking will soon dwindle into sleep, and so she can’t be bothered to turn the lamp off. 

“I don’t think it’s stupid, Ele,” he murmurs as she fits her head under his chin. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

She doesn’t think it’s stupid, either, but it’s nice that he agrees. 

— 

**TUESDAY **  
**31 MARCH **  
**14:22 **  
**LIVING ROOM, EDOARDO’S HOUSE**

“What about the spider?” For such a dangerous question, his tone is entirely blasé.

Eleonora pauses mid-stride and scans the floor and walls around her. Not a spider in sight. Scrunching her eyebrows, she looks back at Edoardo’s wiry frame sprawled out on the couch, his deep brown eyes following her as she returns from the kitchen. A lazy grin tugs at his mouth. If she wasn’t preoccupied with other matters (read: spiders) she might’ve smiled, entertained a few ideas that popped into her mind as he laid there, committed to one and climbed on top of him, but she is preoccupied. “There’s a spider?” 

When it comes to spiders, she doesn’t have an opinion one way or the other, but a confused half-smile spreads on his face, he props himself up on an elbow, and he says, “Yeah, the one on your arm,” with a tone and matching expression that would be cute if he was saying _anything_ else, and she thinks she might have a heart attack. 

“On my _arm_?” 

Immediately, her heart rate spikes and adrenaline floods her system and she flails her arms around, starts batting at herself to get the alleged spider _off her person_. If she makes a few inhuman sounds during her brief panic, that’s her problem, not anyone else’s. 

There’s a spider on her _arm_—on her _fucking_ _arm_—for fuck’s sake. 

“Is it off? Is it _off_? _Get it off_!”

Edoardo’s half-grin turns into an amused grimace and suddenly he’s there across the room to where she’s backed up in her panic, grabbing her thrashing wrists and saying, “Ele, _Ele_—”

“Don’t fucking—”

“The tattoo! I meant your tattoo.” 

Mouth open, chest heaving, eye widening, she stares at him long enough that his grimace turns back into a little grin. _Is he fucking kidding right now?_ Then his expression turns sheepish as she glares and he shrugs. “We fell asleep before we finished talking last night.” 

A beat passes, then—“You’re so stupid!” 

Once she’s ripped a hand from his grip, she shoves against his chest. There’s not enough heat behind her words for them to stick or force behind her hand for it to hurt, and he looks adorable when he tilts his head like that. Against her will, the corners of her mouth turn up even as she keeps glaring and Edoardo loops his free arm around her waist and draws her into his side. All the while, she keeps shoving against him, tries to force down the part of her that finds the whole thing funny, too. He’s being _dumb_, she reminds herself, and she’s irritated, but she recognizes the look on his face, the angle of his brow and the twitch of his lips; if there’s one thing she’s a sucker for it’s—“No, _no_! You don’t get to kiss your way out of this!”

Already, he’s peppering her face with his mouth, little sweet kisses on her forehead, along her brow-line, down her temple, even as she wriggles in his hold. 

He uses them to punctuate his words: “I don’t—” one on her cheekbone, “—know what—” two on either side of her nose, “—you’re talking—” one by the corner of her eye that forces a smile to her lips, another on her other cheekbone, “—about.” 

He’s made it to the edge of her face, now, and starts pressing tiny kisses from the top of her ear to the corner of her jaw. When she tries to pull away, he laughs a little and holds her tighter, even as she walks her hips, her legs, away from his body. He follows her, kissing diligently at her skin and using the hand still clasped in his to navigate her body back toward him, and she tries to keep her expression neutral, her _tone_ neutral. _Tries_. “Fucking—_liar_.” 

“Mm—” Eleonora frowns, but the kisses—slower, now, open-mouthed and edging toward fervent—down her cheek and to her jaw have her lips twitching upwards. His mouth is intoxicating, she decides as her skin heats and her feet stumble. He hasn’t even made his way to her lips, yet, given her a proper kiss that would warrant her mind i wandering, her resolve wavering, her efforts to escape lessening. Damn him. “Okay.” 

“_Okay_?” She musters a little heat now. He’s so nonchalant, and she’s—worked up in more ways than one. “You’re so—”

“Funny?” More heavy kisses along her jawline, he releases her other wrist and uses his second arm to pull her back into his chest. “Handsome? Wonderful?” 

“_Annoying_!” It’s an effort to get that same heat she just had into her words, but she’s successful, even against his mind-numbing, blood boiling barrage. Her skin tingles wherever he touches her—his hands on her waist, their legs brushing against one another, and his damn mouth on her neck—every touch zinging up her spine to her brain; she’s so, _so_ warm, and he’s everywhere. 

“Ah, yes, this is exactly what I wanted from my spring break.” The kisses along her jaw and under her chin paired with the brief tease of his teeth against her pulse point undermine his statement, as does the humor in his tone and the smile she feels against her skin. That’s what gets her, she thinks, his fucking smile. “To have my girlfriend call me annoying.”

He’s enjoying this and knows, even if she tries to say otherwise, that she is, too.

“Mm,” she hums, the hand that should shove against his chest slipping up to grip his shoulder as he continues to tease his mouth along her skin. At her waist, his hands flex, thumbs kneading into her skin, rolling into the tension in her muscles. It’s an effort not to let a moan escape her. Eye closing and mouth stuttering a little, she gasps. “Glad I, um—lived up to your—ah, your expectations.” 

He steps them backwards toward the couch, his hands continuing to flex and squeeze against her waist and a chuckle rumbling in his chest when—despite her best efforts—an embarrassing noise falls from her lips. Teeth grazing her collarbone, he sucks hard enough against the same spot that she’s sure there will be a bruise. She clutches his shoulders as her knees grow weaker and weaker; damn him and his stupid, maddening mouth. It pops off her skin with a wet noise and when he pulls back, she opens her eyes.

Where the fuck does he think he’s going? 

The tiniest of smirks spreads on his lips and her chest heaves against his; he laughs as she manages a soft glare. “Oh, you surpassed every one of them.” 

“I’m so glad.” Voice weak but pointed, it doesn’t take much effort for him to walk them the rest of the way to the couch he previously occupied, mouth returned to nibbling on her neck, sliding one large, warm hand up to cup the bottom of her shoulder blade and the other down just low enough that she starts to get ideas. She isn’t sure how, but he draws her closer and closer, even though they’re as close together as she thinks they possible can be, and her jaw shudders up and down as he licks a stripe up the side of her neck. She’s embarrassed to feel lightheaded at the whole thing—she hasn’t even kissed him _once_—but then his mouth makes its way back up to the corner of her jaw and he pulls her earlobe through his teeth and her eyes roll. She shudders, pulling the fabric of his sweater between the fingers of one hand and gripping harder to his shoulder with the other. “Leave a—a good review for me on, uh, girlfriend Yelp.” 

“_Girlfriend_ Yelp?” Incredulity colors his tone like a heady flush colors her face. If she had planned to use her witticism to distract him long enough for her to escape—like she probably should have—or started her own opened-mouth, tongue-included, mind-blowing kissing barrage against him in revenge, she’d be sorely disappointed. Even in his disbelief he doesn’t let up, lips, tongue, and teeth making their way across her jaw, under her chin, and to the other side of her face. Blood pumping, knees shaking, hands balling into weak fists against his chest, Eleonora can’t help the noise that slips out of her mouth as he starts the whole process over on this new, untouched, unattended side of her neck. 

Skin hot and tingling, with enough ease that he can guide them toward the couch, he drives her oversensitivity up the wall. 

That’d be nice, she thinks as he does something truly wicked that makes her knees buckle, to be pressed against a wall. Or to press him against a wall. Her hands slide off his shoulders and fist in his sweater, feeling the hard plane of his chest through the fabric, with half a mind to do just that, but it’s almost like he can tell what’s circling in her thoughts. 

He sucks this other earlobe into his mouth and laughs—fucking _laughs_—when she groans. 

When the back of his legs hit the couch and their momentum stops, her entire body seems to sag against his and, try as she might to move her hands to pull his face to hers so he could fucking _kiss_ her or something crazy like that, she can’t; he overwhelms her entire nervous system. He sucks on her pulse point again and she thinks she might start convulsing. She remembers, now, that he’s making fun of her for being nonsensical thanks to his stupid, mind fogging neck kisses, and pants, “Trying to be funny—or, or something.” 

“Mm?” That hum sounds entirely too pleased. 

“Yeah—yeah.” The hands at her waist slip just a little further down her body and she gets her own hands to move as well, but all they seem capable of doing is gripping his shoulders and sliding into his hair, pulling it between her fingers. At this, his own little moan vibrates from his chest out of his mouth and into her skin. It feels so good—too good—but it gets him to detach his lips from her neck and she gets a moment of clarity. 

She’s supposed to be yelling at him for being a little asshole right now. 

Just as she realizes, his arms band a little tighter around her, he pulls her up onto her toes, and presses his lips back into her skin, muttering, “Well, I hope I get an equally good review on boyfriend Yelp.” 

Her moment of clarity disappears and goosebumps burst along her skin, up the back of her neck, and all over her scalp. She tries not to shiver too hard, one hand fisting in his hair again and the other squeezing his shoulder. 

And finally, blissfully, maddeningly, Edoardo shifts his mouth from her neck onto her lips and she whimpers, tension leaking from her body. Their progression to sit on the couch pauses for several long seconds. These kisses are slow, sensual, mouths sliding hot against each other, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip. When she tugs on his hair, his mouth opens in a slight gasp before she licks into his mouth with a laugh. 

After enough time passes that she can’t tell whose breath is whose anymore, Edoardo pulls his mouth from hers, pressing their foreheads together and eliciting a whine from deep in Eleonora’s diaphragm. Laughing, he braces his hands at her waist and sinks into the couch, pressing singular kisses to her lips as she bends to follow him. 

Once he settles, she lowers herself onto the cushions, first one knee and then the other on either side of his hips, and slides her mouth over his again; her hands cup his cheeks and he tilts his face up to her. As she takes her time kissing him into as much senselessness as he had done to her, he palms the back of her thighs, heat warming her skin as he trails them up her ass to the top of her shorts. His fingers slip into the waistband and her shirt comes untucked. She shivers, his hands slipping under the fabric, nails tracing over her skin as his hands move up and up, from the small of her back around to her ribs, up her sides. She sinks into his lap, her shirt rucking up and exposing her heated skin to the cool air of his living room. A gasp slips from her lips into his—

Edoardo draws back, chest heaving, and her mind registers the smug, excited smile spreading on that mouth that she _should_ be kissing but _isn’t_ anymore. What the fuck is he—

One of his hands drops lower on her waist, thumb pressing against her skin over and over as if to say _hey, don’t worry, we’ll be getting back to this in a moment_. The other pulls her shirt further up her side until his fingers run along the waistband of her bra and the skin underneath. He ducks his head out of the gentle hold she has on him, and for a hopeful moment she thinks he has _other_ ideas, but his mouth doesn’t latch onto her ribs. No, he just stares at her skin, fingers ghosting a hair below the waistband. Eleonora frowns. “Edo.” 

“Hm?” 

She leans back, taking a hold of her shirt so she can see _whatever_ he’s looking at, and glares as their eyes meet. It’s the fucking fast forward symbol tattooed on her ribs right in front of his face. “Really?” 

He leans back into the couch as she drops her shirt. It pools over his wrist, his hand still cupping her ribs underneath her bra, and she folds her arms over her chest. “We never finished talking about them.” 

“And so you asked about the spider.” A nod. “And scared the shit out of me.” 

A smirk slides onto his face. He intertwines his hands together at the small of her back and pulls her closer to him. “Maybe.” 

“_Maybe_?” She raises an eyebrow, her earlier annoyance flaring up and down as she studies his damn face, contemplates the fact that he used a known weakness of hers—fucking _kissing_, it’s so distracting—to get her to talk about her tattoos again. It’s ridiculous. _He’s_ ridiculous. “Don’t lie.”

“Okay.” Another tug closer. She braces her hands against his chest to keep her balance and the corners of his mouth twitch up. 

“Okay.” She sits back in his lap but it does little to put more space between them, even though that’s what she needs to keep from giving in again. “And you had the perfect opportunity to ask me about them again, but you kissed me instead.” 

“You brought kissing up first.” 

“Mm, don’t turn this on me.” She pokes his chest. “_You_ are the only one at fault.” 

He nods, his hands slipping from one another. One presses flat against her back and the other opens and closes into a loose fist against her skin, light scratching. He’s doing it again, trying to distract her from her mild annoyance, and he knows it’s working, like she knows how to get him worked up, too—skin heated, mind dizzy, too aroused for public decency but not so much as to be cruel—even when she’s not in the mood for anything more. He’s playing her at her own game. The problem is: it’s working. 

She tries not to smile. The game, she knows he enjoys it even if the outcome is mildly infuriating for him; she just can’t believe that it’s the same now that the tables are turned: even if she’s annoyed, there’s a thrill underlying it all. 

“Okay, I take all the blame,” he says, grinning. “What does this one mean?” 

He’s going to _love_ this: “Nothing.” 

“Nothing.” His grin slips from his face. She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “You’re serious.” 

She nods. “As serious as I’ve ever been.” 

A pout replaces his grin, and he shakes his head. “I can’t _believe_—”

“Hey!” She shoves at his chest. “Not every tattoo has to have a super deep meaning.” 

“Mm, okay, why’d you get it then?” 

“I think rib tattoos look really cool.” 

“_Ele_—” she doesn’t let him get much farther, cupping his face and surging forward, foregoing her internal debate about the morality of their game in favor of using it to distract him once more. She slides her mouth over his and laughs at the surprised sound he makes. His hands flatten against her back, pulling her torso flush against his, and her hair falls like a curtain around their faces. After a moment full of his mouth and his tongue and his breath mingling with hers, she slips a hand into his curls and tugs just hard enough. 

Plus, she thinks as his mouth opens underneath hers and he bites her bottom lip, they both like the game. Her tattoos can wait.

—

**FRIDAY **  
**APRIL 3 **  
**16:33 **  
**DOCKS, FIUMICINO **

“Okay,” he starts, drawing her attention from the glint of the sun off the waves to his face where he lays with his head in her lap. He’s got his eyebrows raised. “Just to preface: I’m not asking about an actual spider this time.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Eleonora says, looking away, but smiles when he laughs something sharp and bright. When she pointedly keeps her gaze locked on a passing boat in the distance, he tugs on her shirt until she relents. “What?”

“Hey.” Edoardo’s voice is soft and sweet, now, sensitive to her annoyance but still amused, if only a little, by her reaction. Earnestness shades his eyes. “Will you tell me why you got the spider tattoo?”

For a moment, she watches him, studies his eyes, the way the sunlight glints off their glossy surface and turns his irises into a backlit brown, like coffee or cola. His hand encircles the wrist she rests on his sternum and one corner of his mouth pulls up. The smile that blooms when she nods is bright like the sun. Her chest warms.

“It was Filo’s idea again.”

His laugh echoes off the water. “Really?”

“Mm.”

“Do you have any tattoos that weren’t his idea?”

“The fast forward,” she says, pinching his chest and raising her eyebrows when a playful wince scrunches up his face. “And you seemed pretty interested in that one the other day.”

“Well, what piques my interest piques my interest.”

“_Piques_? Is Cornell expanding your vocabulary, or something?” Her other hand drifts into his hair, winds a curl or two around her index finger. His smile makes her chest warm further. “I thought you were there for business: finance and accounting and _math_.”

“I’m interdisciplinary.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

He snorts a little, and covers his eyes with the back of his wrist. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Okay.” She presses her lips together and draws her hand from his hair so she can lean back on it. From the moment the topic of tattoos came up, Eleonora knew they’d be delving into rough terrain, so to speak. A lot of things have happened to her and the tattoos have been—therapeutic, if nothing else. They’ve covered heavy stuff, stuff she’s been scared to talk about with most people before, but he’s still here with her, still sleeping in her bed, still laying with his head in her lap, still waiting to hear every word that comes out of her mouth.

What’s a little more weight, then?

“Nymphomaniac wasn’t the only thing I was called at my old school,” she says, voice dropping to a whisper. “It was mostly your typical slut-shaming rhetoric, but everyone’s favorite seemed to be ‘man-eater.’”

His voice hints at derision, low and rough, and his jaw clenches as he mutters, “What a title.”

“I know, right?”

A beat passes. They listen to the waves lapping at the docks and crashing against the sea, the wind whistling at a low pitch, each other’s breathing. Edoardo’s hand doesn’t tighten or loosen against her wrist, but rather his hand shifts to cover millimeters more of her skin, to offer his presence. Tension she wasn’t aware of drains from her shoulders.

“And the most famous man-eater is the black widow. Filo said I should get a tattoo of one, reclaim the term. Give an actual reason to be called it, besides rumors that weren’t true.” She shrugs, even though Edoardo’s hand still covers his eyes. “So I did.”

Several moments pass and she turns her face up to the sun, closing her eyes. That warmth in her chest doesn’t disappear as she talks about her tattoo, rather spreads as the sun falls on her skin, and soon her entire body is pleasantly warm. Filippo was clever when he came up with the idea, she thinks, her lips twitching up, and it’s fun to tell someone else about it.

Edoardo hums and she looks back down at him. He’s pulled his arm off his face and watches her with a contemplative expression, like he’s trying to decide how to feel: angry on her behalf, or amused by Filippo like she is, or maybe even indifferent. It happened then and now it doesn’t anymore. Not much to do. She doesn’t figure out what he chooses, he speaks too soon: “Can I see it?”

Shrugging off her jacket, she braces herself against the early April chill and rucks up the sleeve covering her tattoo before twisting her arm and showing it to him. His hands are gentle when they grasp her arm, one steadying her wrist and the other beneath her elbow. Unlike the air around them, his hand is warm and helps maintain the contented feeling grown in her chest, spread down her limbs, along her bones. She smiles while he studies it closely, his head lifting slightly from her lap to peer closer.

Once he’s done, he lays back in her lap, the fingers at her wrist slipping down to hold her hand. The other settles on his stomach and she relaxes her arm so their clasped hands rests against his sternum above his heart. “Mm, I like it.”

Eleonora smiles. “I’m glad.”

He closes his eyes against the sun again and for a few minutes, they sit there quiet in the bright afternoon light. In her lap, his head grows heavy enough she thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, though he hints at a smile when she starts playing with his hair. They’ve stilled enough she can feel his heartbeat beneath where their hands lay. A few beats pass. “All this talk of tattoos is making me think of getting one.”

“Yeah?” He’d look good with tattoos, she thinks. They’d look nice against his skin, against his body. She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. “What would you get?”

“Well, since you think rib tattoos are super cool—” _of course_ he’d mention that, the asshole, “—obviously I’d want to get one of those.”

“Mm, yeah?” She brushes a few curls off his forehead, and a mingle of dread and anticipation fills her stomach. He’s going to say something stupid, she knows, and amusing in that infuriating way of his. “Of what?”

“A big ass drawing of your face.”

“Asshole,” she says, stifling her laughter.

He grins. “I was thinking I could get Nico to do it.”

“He is the only one who could get my face—or anyone’s face—to look good as a tattoo, you’re right.” It really isn’t meant to be anything self-deprecating, but Edoardo takes each and every opportunity to tell her she’s beautiful that he gets. Even something silly, like this.

A squeeze to her hand, accompanied by an earnest smile, raised eyebrows. She scrunches her face even as he says, “You’d look magnificent as a tattoo.”

“Oh, compliment me further, _please_.”

“Ele,” he chuckles a little like he can’t help it, even as he tugs on her hand. “I’m serious. Even if I wouldn’t get it tattooed, I’d love to commission Nico to draw you.”

“Like one of his French girls?” She doesn’t look at him, she _can’t_ look at him.

“_Ele_.”

She looks at him. Her breath hitches. A blush rises to her cheeks. Even after a year, Edoardo does and says things that make her heart beat faster. Says them all with the most serious expression, the most genuine tone, that it’s impossible not to believe him, and it makes her chest smart. The fucking charmer. “Don’t say things like that if you’re not serious about it, you’ll get my hopes up.”

In an instant, he sits up, ferventness smoothing his expression until a small smile remains and the middle of his brow lifts. The skin around his eyes crinkles as that smile grows. “Yours is a face people would put in museums, Ele.”

“Stop.”

“No.” He leans toward her and presses the lightest of kisses to her mouth and draws back so she can see his face once more. “You’re beautiful.”

“_Stop_.”

“You know how you feel when you look at a garden or at a flower or a bush you think is really nice?” he asks, ignoring her protests, shifting his legs underneath himself to turn more fully toward her. He props up a bent knee and wraps his arm around it, scooting himself closer. “That’s how I feel when I look at you.”

Her lips part as her focus flickers back and forth between his irises. Not a speck of dishonesty mars his face and the warmth in her chest spikes, her pulse races. “Edo—”

A finger comes up and presses to her lips, replaced quickly by his thumb. It ghosts over her skin and goosebumps erupt down the back of her neck and along her shoulders. “No, don’t say anything, you’ll ruin it.”

Eleonora raises her eyebrows, face scrunching up. He’s right, after all. Accepting compliments is not her strong suit, even after a full year of him giving her a multitude of opportunities to practice.

“You are beautiful, and wonderful, and smart.” He cups the back of her head. “Let me tell you that, okay?”

After a moment of hesitation, she nods, and he proceeds to do so for several long minutes that make her squirm and smile and blush and makes her heart ache. She blushes so much as he lavishes her with an endless string of impassioned compliments that she’s far warmer than she was just the other day when the same mouth—now spouting adoration in a tone that can only be interpreted as _honest_—riled her up so much she thought she might burst from it. At the end, he gives her sweet kisses that can’t be strung into anything longer because they’re both smiling too hard; her out of the absolute fluster he’s caused and him from the reaction he’s drawn, she’s sure.

A final kiss, then he sits back and beams at her.

She purses her lips and shakes her head, squeezing his hand before changing the subject. “Okay, beyond the one of my face, what tattoo would you get?”

Edoardo smirks at her pointed look, but his expression sobers as he thinks. After a second or two of consideration, he shrugs. “Probably something to remind me of my mom.”

A soft smile slides onto her lips. Her voice is quiet. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His own smile broadens as he thinks further. “She loved the sea, being in the water. Maybe I could get a wave, or a boat. Or a surfboard, she loved surfing.”

“That sounds really nice.” She brushes the stray curl always falling into his eyes away from his face and he kisses her palm when she draws her hand back. As she speaks, his gaze never leaves her face. “I think she’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, and her smile turns sheepish as she thinks of what she wants to say next. He spent several long minutes singing her praises, its the least she can do to say what she’s thinking: “I didn’t know her, but I know you. And something tells me that’s close enough.”

The smile she’s rewarded with makes that warmth in her chest flare. He is as bright as the sun, talking about his mother, and radiates light. It’s contagious, she grins wide.

“You’re too nice to me, sometimes.”

Of their own accord, her eyebrows raise. “Says mister ‘compliment my girlfriend for ten minutes straight.’”

“Those are well deserved.”

“So is this.” She hopes he reads her honesty, understands how much she means it. As he studies her, his eyes flicker over her face, lighting on each of her features before returning to her eyes. He shakes his head, but smiles, and she squeezes his hand again. “She’d like anything you do.”

And again, the staring. Just as she can’t take her compliments, neither can he, even after her attempts to match him the whole year.

She whispers, “Let me tell you that, okay?”

It’s his turn to part his lips and look hopelessly at her and nod after a pause. Eleonora smiles.

A quiet few minutes pass in which they kiss and kiss and kiss until she’s out of breath, the wind whistling in her ears and cooling her skin, but not her heart. The sun shines bright, still, but it’s nothing compared to the light on Edoardo’s face as they draw apart. They settle into a cuddled clump once more, waves still lapping at the dock like he hadn’t upended her world for the thousandth time. She tucks into his side, one of his legs propped up behind her back and the other slid under her bent knees, his arm draped across her shoulders so he can play with her hair.

Every muscle in her body relaxes when he tugs her closer and she smiles, turning her face into his chest. His sweater is soft against her cheek. “You could get Nico to draw the tattoo for your mom.”

“You think?”

“Of course.” A yawn escaped her. “You’ll want to have it drawn up before you go to the parlor. What reminds you of her the most?”

“The ocean. When I play the guitar. Being with my nonna.”

“Hm, okay, what we need to do is talk to Filo, of course, he’s the resident tattoo expert, as you probably know.”

Edoardo's laugh rings clear out over the ocean. Eleonora grins.


	5. i want to be consumed, to love in quiet rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m the most helpful person you’ve ever met,” you quip, not wrong but also not right as you surge forward and plant another electrifying kiss on my mouth. My hands barely get under your shirt, sitting up to meet you, when you draw back and clamber off my lap. I don’t whine, so to speak, but a shit-eating grin tugs at your lips as you readjust your shirt, your shorts. 
> 
> Those fucking shorts. 
> 
> “I love you.” 
> 
> Immediately, you cover your face with your hands. “Oh my god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u [muskan](https://edonori.tumblr.com) for being fantastic and beta-ing for me 
> 
> if u don't like second POV, sucks? 
> 
> set may-ish, edo POV
> 
> chapter title from "in quiet rooms" by ollie nm

You’re wearing those shorts again.

It’s more of a problem than it should be, but it still is one. I consider telling you for a moment, watching as you walk around my room, shifting around books to look at their titles and skimming your fingers over the general mess I’ve created on every available surface. “The one back home is cleaner.”

“It’s also bigger.” I lean a hand into my mattress, watching the wry grin grow on your face as you shoot me a look over your shoulder. Your foot catches in a stray T-shirt on the floor and you kick it aside rather than tripping over it. I press my lips against a smile. “No personal housekeeper, either.”

You snort and I relish in the goosebumps it raises on my arms, the back of my neck. After another moment of eyeing the clutter, you turn and lean against the dresser. “How unfortunate. Couldn’t get a personal mover, then.”

“Mm, why would I? I have you.”

“Right, I remember the work notice with my plane ticket.” You shake your head, chuckling, green eyes twinkling, red lips curving once again, and my head lolls against my shoulder. There’s no way in hell I’m living in student housing for another year and you’re here in my dorm room, in Ithaca, ready to help me pack up for the semester. I don’t want to start.

Your frustratingly long legs stretch from out of those damn plaid shorts, your wit rings in my head, your teeth tease at your bottom lip. I don’t want to start. “Come here.”

“Hm?”

Predictably, your lips quirk together, the perfect picture of innocent misunderstanding. Your arms fold across your chest. The buzz in my bloodstream heightens a smidge, the hollow in my chest pulses a little larger. I shift off my hand. “C’mere.”

It takes you a second, eyes scanning across my face. Sometimes its easy to fall back into each other. Spring break, for example. Other times are harder, and I can feel the hesitance of last fall when I took you to New York City in the half-meter or so between us. Maybe it’s not the time, but the place. Christmas had been easy, too.

I want to be angry that you don’t like Ithaca, except I fucking hate it, too, and I’m trying to be less hypocritical, and getting angry at you takes more effort than I ever like to give. Ever want to give, really. You step away from the dresser.

In an instant you’ve crossed the space between us and now stand between my knees.This time I don’t press away my smile and you reward me with a brilliant one in return, though your arms stay folded across your chest. I slip one hand, then a second, to cup the backs of your thighs and you shiver. My hands aren’t that cold and you’re wearing tights because Ithaca likes to play games with the temperature in the spring. When I draw you just a hairsbreadth closer, you shiver again. Another smile slides onto my mouth.

“What?” You ask, propping your forearms on my shoulders, tugging just a little at the hair at the base of my neck. Again, more goosebumps raise on my skin and I shrug, tracing a line with my nails up and down on the back of your leg.

“I just like—I just like you,” I say, for lack of better words to use. I can’t exactly say _you’re here in Ithaca and you’re helping me move all my shit out and then we’ll be home together for the whole summer and I can’t fucking believe it_ because it feels like too much. Everything is too much, and you keep playing with my hair, eyebrow quirking, humming like you know there’s more to it. You always know there’s more to it.

“Oh, really?” You murmur. “I couldn’t tell.”

You brush the hair off my forehead, tracing a line down my temple to my cheek, to my mouth, and my skin is buzzing, still, more, if that’s even possible, electric and sensitive and overwhelming. You thumb at the divot of my upper lip with your nail, fingertip brushing feather-light.

It’s all too much, continuously too much, so it doesn’t matter. “We’re gonna be home, soon.” I swallow, throat tight and dry. Talking bumps your finger around and it moves to trace along my jaw. Carefully, intently, your eyes watch mine. My hands flex against the back of your thighs, and the fingers in my hair tug once in response. “Together.”

“Mm,” something teasing pulls at the corner of your mouth and I want to kiss you so bad. It beats rapidly in my chest and I wonder if you can hear it. “I was under the impression we were traveling separately.”

“What gave you that idea?” My heart stops in my chest for as long as your teasing smirk lingers and you don’t say anything more. I know it’s a joke, but even the idea of the summer without you makes me want to dig my own grave and fucking keel over. What a fucking mess. You can read it on my face, I can tell, because your lips turn even more wry.

“It was in the work notice.”

“Well, fuck me, then.” Something sparks in your eyes that gets my heart racing again. The need to kiss you wells once more, along with the need to lay you flat on your back on the mattress and strip off your tights, or let you press me down and make me fist my hands in my sheets, and get recklessly off schedule.

Finally, finally you lean forward and slot your mouth over mine. I watched you pick out your lipstick this morning and it’s not one of those fancy ones that doesn’t smear, and I can feel it slick between our lips. A groan rumbles out of the back of my throat and you laugh, climbing into my lap. My hands skim over your ass in those damn shorts and settle at the small of your back, my skin buzzes and buzzes and buzzes. It’s like I’ve been struck by lightning.

You draw back to flip your hair off your shoulders and I’m probably gaping, or something, because you laugh again before getting back to it.

_Together, we’re going to be home _together_._

God, I fucking love you.

Eventually, you lean too far forward and I fall back into the mattress, unmade bedding crumpled awkwardly underneath my back, my bottom lip slipping out from between your teeth. It hurts a little, but the adrenaline rush dissolves it into something achingly good, especially as you stay sitting upright on my lap, looking down at me. Both of our chests heave, and I grin as you brush the hair out of your face with one hand and slip the other to rest hot against my stomach under my shirt. I edge my fingers up the sides of your thighs until they disappear beneath the hem of your shorts and you raise an eyebrow at me.

“When did you want to get moved out by again?”

You’re incredible.

A laugh cuts out of me and I want to reach up and pull you down on top of me. Instead, I slip my hands out of your shorts and prop myself up on my elbows. “By tonight.”

“Okay,” you say, scratching a slow arc against my stomach, a satisfied grin sharpening on your mouth—a very red, messy looking mouth—as I inadvertently shift underneath you. I’m electric all over. “We better get started then.”

I watch as you sit there and trace shape after shape, face slowly losing its flush, chest gradually returning to a normal rhythm. “You’re not being very helpful.”

“I’m the most helpful person you’ve ever met,” you quip, not wrong but also not right as you surge forward and plant another electrifying kiss on my mouth. My hands barely get under your shirt, sitting up to meet you, when you draw back and clamber off my lap. I don’t whine, so to speak, but a shit-eating grin tugs at your lips as you readjust your shirt, your shorts.

Those fucking shorts.

“I love you.”

Immediately, you cover your face with your hands. “Oh my god.”

I grin. It’s been just over a year and still, neither one of us can say it to the other without them getting mildly uncomfortable. Inferiority complexes, or something. Quickly, I stand and step toward you, settling my arms around you and tugging you into my chest. You press your forehead into my sternum, hands still over your face, and I smooth your hair down.

Eventually you look up from your hands, the tiniest smile on your lips and I kiss you again, slower and softer and you make a humming noise that sets my skin buzzing once more. It’s you, though, not the kissing, or the touching, or those fucking shorts. Just you leaning against me, scrunching your fingers in my shirt, gasping a little breath as we part, flying out here to help me pack even though I’d be home in four days anyway. Settling back down on your toes, peeking up at me through your lashes, laughing a little as I slip a hand into one of your back pockets.

“Should we start packing, then?”

“Maybe.” You’re changing the subject, and I pull my hand from your pocket to shift the hair off your shoulder, cup your jaw, run a thumb over your cheekbone. Your cheeks are flushed, again, and you look beautiful like you always do. “We’re going to be home soon.”

You roll your lips between your teeth. “Not if we don’t start packing.”

“Ele.” I can’t be disgruntled with you, not really, and you chuckle at my attempt even as I resettle my fingers around the back of your neck, draw you even closer to my chest. When I brush my forehead against yours, you sober, eyes flickering between mine we’re so close together, and it rises up inside me. “I missed you.”

Against my collarbones, your fingers flex and one catches in the chain of my necklace. “Edo…”

“I miss you,” I say and press a kiss to the curve of your cheek. As I draw back, you exhale, roll your lips together, and nudge your nose against mine, before leaning up and catch my top lip between yours.

Over and over again, that motion, nodding up and drawing our mouths together, a bit of tongue here and some teeth there, but mostly slow, insistent, heavy kisses. Along your mouth I can feel an echo of my words, _I love you, I miss you, we’re going to be home together, soon_, and I shift my arm around to tug you closer from your waist. The fingers looped in my necklace tug until the chain digs into my skin, and one of your nails grazes against my collarbone, and you gasp once into my mouth, an arm sliding up to curl behind my neck.

You say, “I love you,” and kiss me again before I can shy away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah I stole from noliv lmao 
> 
> love u all hope ur doing well <3


End file.
